The Cursed Boy
by YourRhineStoneEyes
Summary: He was told he was only born to bring pain to those around him, he always felt it was the furthest thing from the truth.


Author's Note: Felt like doing something rather short and one character focused.

He hadn't been born under normal circumstances, he hadn't been born from love, or passion. He'd simply been born under the name of a curse, he spent his first two years of life not being coddled or held in his mother's arms. As he grew older he went from no touches to only the feel of physical pain, of torture. He wasn't read fairy tales as a child, he was read about stories of Gods and angels killing those with evil in their hearts; he was told he had evil in his heart. He never felt evil, he felt lonely, and scared; he wanted to love his mother and father more than anything. He wanted to please them, to earn their love. He did his chores, as he grew older they got worse; he swept snow, carried crates, and collected fire wood. He did everything, but it never worked; he was always evil. Even at a young age Toki knew his situation wasn't normal; his parents were old, too old to create a child of their own, but he was theirs. He even could see the similarities between himself and his father, but they didn't want him. When he spoke out of line or denied their beliefs he was taken down into the basement. He hated the basement; a rope would be tied around his neck, he was kept like an animal on a make shift leash. The room was cold and the floor was damp. It was nearly impossible to keep even remotely warm down there or anywhere; his parents allowed him a tattered pair of pants and in extremely cold weather they might permit a shirt to go along with it. It was never enough though, his clothes were worn and full of holes. He grew his hair as long as he could to keep his face and neck warm from the cold, he sort of liked the length of it and how pretty it was when he was able to wash it. When the door leading to the basement would open Toki would crawl into the corner in the comfort of darkness hiding away from the footsteps of his father. He would shake with fear and not come out unless he was dragged by the rope holding him or by his father grabbing a hand full of his hair. He would whimper and cry as his father dragged him into the middle of the room, kick and scream if his throat wasn't raw. The whip; he hated the whip, there were times he would simply kneel in the center of the room and take it. Bite into his lip until it would bleed just to keep from screaming at the painful sting of that whip going across his back; the sound of it echoing off of the walls. Other times he would be shackled on the wall, always a prisoner. They told him that they didn't want him, they wanted him to die, or to disappear. He couldn't understand why they hated him, why they never loved him to begin with.

When he behaved his worse he went into the punishment pit. Those were the times they were too disgusted by him to allow him in the house, in the basement. The trip down the pit seemed endless, his feet and hands would be numb and cut up by the time he would reach the bottom. He would lie there just staring up at the coin shaped hole where light would peek through; he would wonder what he had done wrong to deserve this. He would cry until it hurt, until the shaking was so bad that he would pass out. The best thing that happened in his young life was the clown doll he had made in secret; his parents hadn't known, if they found out they would have burned it right before his eyes. He loved his doll, his friend; he told it ever fear and every worry, he told it about how he hoped he could run away from there some day. He would hold the doll closely as he sat in the darkened corner of the punishment pit. When his time would be up he would hide the doll where he knew they wouldn't find it, they never came down there. It was his place even if he didn't want it to be.

By the time he turned thirteen his back was covered in angry red lines, there were some that managed to heal; they turned into faded scars, but most of them couldn't heal all of the way. A couple of them would become infected due to a lack of treatment. They were re-opened every time that his father came at him with the whip. By the time he was a teenager he understood his father's hateful words more. His father would tell him he was a creature, not a man; he was a bringer of death. They were keeping the world safe by keeping him away from everybody. He tried to argue through tears and pained gasp that it wasn't true, he wasn't filled with hate or rage; he wouldn't hurt somebody, kill somebody. The hits were harder, harsher with each plea for it to stop, each argument that he wasn't some killing machine. He didn't want to be what they told him he was. He had dreams of a family that loved him and welcomed him with open arms, people that would take care of him. He had dreams of a place full of colors, a place where he'd be given new clean clothes that would fit him well, and he would always have food to eat. He'd never be cold or scared; he'd always be safe and happy. The dreams kept him as safe as they could, the dreams and his trips away from home. His parents didn't care about him, they didn't care when he came and went though they preferred him to stay where he was within reach, because it was easier to get him and imprison him. He was brave enough to leave his punishment pit, run through the woods and sometimes into town where if he begged people that knew him enough they would buy food for him or allow him to stay at their homes for maybe an hour or two. Nobody in town really wanted him around either; they all knew about his family. They talked about them, about the crazed religious beliefs and how supposedly they spawned some child full of death and bad luck. He wasn't welcome anywhere.

When he would return back home from his trips he would be caught more times than not. His father would drag him to the basement, chain him to the wall, an whip him until his torso was bloodied and scarred up. At night a dog dish of raw foods would be thrown his way, the food was horrible, but it was something. God he was desperate for anything in the way of food, he was so hungry when he was locked up for weeks at a time.

The day he had found his guitar had been one of the days he had gotten out of the punishment pit without his father or mother noticing. He had ran through the cloak of darkness and into the woods; he felt like Alice trying to find Wonderland. He always hoped he would find the rabbit hole, this time he got lucky. He had tripped over something when he'd been wandering around, he looked back to see something shiny sticking up from the snow coated ground. He dug it out discovering a guitar lying there, he picked the instrument up cradling it delicately. He held it against himself, one hand around the neck and his other hand went across the chords feeling them out. He sat on the ground and started to play, he was confused by how he naturally knew what to do so well, and by how beautiful and melodic the music was. He spent nearly an hour just playing losing himself in music that sounded so soothing and comforting to his ears, he couldn't believe he was the one making this music. Him, the one brought into this world supposedly to only cause misery and pain was creating this beautiful music. It made him feel warm despite the cold, he was elated.

Toki got up and ran back towards home with his guitar in hand; when he arrived his parents were standing outside of the house. He showed them his new instrument, excitedly told them about the music that he could play on it and how they were wrong about him being here to create only hurt. His father glared down at him, disgusted; he smacked the boy hard across the face then sent him back to the punishment pit. He couldn't understand it, understand why they beat him, or why he was down in this hole in the ground. He had hoped they could understand, but they didn't want to; they didn't want him here, he wasn't cared for.

That's why the following morning before they were awake he crawled out of the punishment pit for the last time, his guitar with him, and he ran away. He swore to leave and never go back to that place, to get away from bad memories, and a life filled with loneliness and hurt. He would find a new home, a new family that would love him.


End file.
